Natural Selection
by wingeddserpent
Summary: Even partners need time to get used to one another... but it's kind of hard when they're both so different. Rated for swearing and general snarkiness. Fran/Balthier


**Natural Selection**

**Part One**

**A/N: I wrote this for a friend's birthday and decided to share. It was for the idea: I love you enough to let you carry me. Anyway, thanks for reading and feedback is greatly appreciated.**

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Weakness was a luxury not afforded to the viera. Created to be perfect, any flaw was seen as a mortal sin, even to the Mother Wood who had created them in the image of Herself. A blemish was a failure in the eyes of the Goddess, and a failed viera was a viera no longer; for viera, by definition, are perfect.

Fran had always been more like a hume anyway. Curious and inventive in a way that made her an oddity among her own kind, she'd eventually left the Wood for the land of Ivalice, ending up indebted to a man by the name of Balthier who needed a co-pilot.

That drew an elegant sniff from her. If he was a man, she was a seeq; and what he needed wasn't a co-pilot, but a babysitter. "Your assumptions were wrong."

"Thank you, beloved peanut gallery, for pointing out the painfully obvious with such alacrity. What would I do without your running commentary about _what I know already_?" she could nearly taste the sweat dripping from his temples; nearly feel the ragged breaths tearing through his chest.

"Perhaps breathing would be easier if you didn't wear the corset," she pointed out, just barely concealing the smirk—getting under his skin was easiest while they ran, when his breath was for breathing and not combating her comments.

"It's not a corset," he gritted out, his many-holed ears turning red, whether from frustration or embarrassment, she didn't care to tell, "It's a vest, to keep me safe from all sorts of weaponry."

As if his words beckoned them, a hail of arrows fell from the sky. She heard the wet crunch of an arrow embedding into flesh, smelt the warm copper of blood, and realized the scent was laced with moonflower and knew the blood was hers and she shut her eyes and steeled herself for pain but cried out anyway when it came. The shoulder wept red from where the arrow protruded and rivers of life ran down her arm from it. And then, all went from red to black.

_Fran, your interest in the outside world…it must stop. Others begin to notice, and soon, they will not be able to ignore it. Do not shake your head at me so. I know what I speak of. Seasons will come and go, and soon they will see only your…peculiarity. Do you wish to be exiled, to become a Forsaken, like a hume? Come back, Fran! You must listen to me!_

Before she woke, Balthier paced; glancing every so often at the prone body of the viera. If she didn't wake, he wasn't sure _how_ he was getting out of here. The Strahl required two to fly her, and he'd left Nono behind in Bhujerba to pick up parts. He hadn't thought anyone would get hurt in a temple heist but, apparently, Nabradians took their worship very seriously. Seriously enough that the priests weren't fat and greedy, but fit and pious… and equipped to fight off a couple of sky pirates looking for a profit. "Damnit, if you spent less time snarking at me, we'd be out of here already," he ran a hand through his sweat-drenched hair. "If the Strahl didn't like you so much, I'd have been rid of you long ago."

Balthier glanced down again and wished, not for the first time, he knew more about vieran anatomy. It would be so much easier to heal her. However, she'd been as tightlipped about that as she had been about everything that wasn't criticism for him, or praise for his ship. Both of which she had in abundance. Well, she might not know a fine, attractive man when he stood before her, but she sure knew her ships.

That was why he kept her, and her aggravating mannerisms, around.

A soft moan alerted him that she was regaining consciousness; his eyebrow shot up—he'd never seen her ears quiver quite that way before, as if she were a rabbit being hunted by a dog. She inhaled sharply, and her eyes flickered open, the same color her shoulder had been before he'd washed it. "Balthier?" her brow furrowed, "What have you done?" Discreetly, her hands tightened on the familiar bed sheets, claws gently scratching against the cheap material. Often, it was a choice between comfort or ship parts. The one point they never argued about.

"Well, after the arrow got you in the shoulder, you passed out. I had the honor of carrying you back to the Strahl and tending your wounds as best I could. Though I'm sure you'll need to lick them a bit yourself," he flashed her a grin: once again, he'd played her hero.

With her good arm, she propped herself up to look at him. Her eyes burned, and were he a lesser man, he'd have shrunk to avoid that gaze.

"You should not have done that," her voice snapped like lightning, and, with her silvery locks disheveled as they were, he though maybe she had turned into an element. Of course, he dismissed the idea almost as quickly as it came; he was a pirate, not a poet.

Realistically, it seemed that once again he'd get no thanks for saving her.

Scorchingly, their eyes met; and he spoke, closing the distance between them with each word, "I'm a sky pirate; I make my living by doing things I _shouldn't do_. As it turns out, saving your sorry arse is profitable to me. I need you to help fly my goddamn ship, so you're going to heal your shoulder, then get into your fucking seat and help me fly."

Nearly nose to nose now, he brought a hand up to her cheek, the caricature of a caress, but his voice held firm. "I've enough to deal with, without your need to _save yourself_, or whatever the issue is. My advice: shut the hell up and fly. Are we understood?"

Her signature silence followed, but by the darkness of her expression, his message hadn't gone through yet. With a disgusted growl, he released her cheek with, perhaps, more force than necessary. This woman was utterly ridiculous. On the way out, he called over his shoulder, "By the way, since I've rescued you again, that's an extra three months you'll be working for me. I expect you to be ready to fly in ten minutes."

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It was just over a year later when Balthier, now eighteen, made another grievous miscalculation.

Steel met steel, broadsword crashed down onto katana, while a gun fired in the background. "Balthier," her voice came out a ragged hiss; this had to be the thirtieth guard she'd fought in an hour, "by _avoid the alarm system_, I did not mean _set it off and call every guard in Rozzaria_."

"Yes, thank you, Fran, I'll be sure to listen more carefully next time." Another perfect shot punctuated his sarcastic reply, "Besides, we've only attracted a third of the guards so far."

A grotesque squelch met his statement as she violently ripped her katana from the man's innards. "Let's depart then, before we attract more."

"Sky pirate scum, ye'll pay fer yer wicked ways!"

Fran and Balthier turned towards the seeq just in time to see him pull out a huge flintlock gun, similar to Balthier's own. The shot sounded, and Fran swore inwardly. There wasn't enough time to do anything and so she braced herself for the pain that never came.

Next to her, a garbled cry, then the loud smack of a hume hitting something harder than itself. The idiot seeq had shot at _Balthier._ What a fool, didn't he know a viera was more of a threat to him? Didn't he realize, from the blood staining her katana and dripping down her hands, that she was more likely to destroy him than Balthier was? Well, his loss. An old vieran battle cry left her lips, one that roughly translated into _For Lente_, and she caught his gun on her katana, flipping the weapon from his flabby hands with ease.

She had always preferred blade to bow, had always preferred action to standing on the sidelines.

It was also more relieving to slice open seeqs and watch them bleed than it was to shoot them between the eyes and be done with it. Ignoring its pain-filled screams, more akin to pig shrieks, she walked back to her fallen pilot. With his eyes closed, blood pouring out from his side and face paler than was natural, he reminded her of the fading Marlboro she'd found in the Wood as a child. Ravaged by a hellhound and left to die, the once green skin had faded to a grey dusty color as its fleshy lips hung open, to reveal black blood pouring from its mouth. Blood that had, somehow, smelt like the Village, like the viera, like her sisters. Just remembering made bile rise up in her throat. From that point on, she had never been able to eat another Marlboro or any other sort of meat, for that matter. Fran wondered if Balthier's face would go as grey as the Marlboro's had when all the life leaked out.

Silently, save for her heavy breathing, she watched him; watched the red blood that smelt of copper and almonds drain out, leaving behind a stark white ghost with a slowing heartbeat. It seemed he'd become like the clouds, rather than like dust. Somehow, it was fitting; he was, above all else, a man of the sky, he'd much prefer a cloud over dust. She swallowed.

This man had saved her twice, both times without prompting. However, by all natural laws, any being that couldn't care for itself was left to die, to weed out the weakness. If he couldn't save himself now, then he was unworthy of life, and it was wrong to help him. Or so the law went.

Her katana slid back into the sheath, almost of its own accord.

By the laws of honor, she was indebted to him. Thus, she had to rescue him to pay her due. But, which laws were of more importance?

The viera within her said the natural laws; while the other part, the part that loved technology and flying, said honor. Told her it would be wrong to leave this man to die, when he had done the opposite for her twice before and forced wings upon her, when her own had been clipped so long ago.

Magick swirled around her, the lavender glow gathering around her spotted ears. "Curaga," she said, letting the healing spell soak into his skin, watching it reknit torn flesh.

A bit of color returned to his face, but he didn't stir.

With his arms wrapped haphazardly around her shoulders, left to dangle at her sides, her arms supporting his legs, his head resting against her neck, and a tendril of his drool tracing its way from her neck; over her collarbone; and between her breasts, she carried him back to the Strahl for further healing.

When he awoke three days later, it was to her saying with a certain amount of humor:

"Your blood smells of almonds."

Blearily, he met her eyes and murmured, only half-aware of what he said, "I don't even _like_ almonds, I much prefer cashews."

"Your drool does as well," she continued as if she hadn't heard him.

He grimaced at that, for such a beautiful, albeit sharp-tongued, woman to have seen him drool. Color darkened his ears, but thankfully not his cheeks. "Almonds? Truly?"

"Truly," she replied, eyes dancing with mirth he was only now learning to recognize, "Viera have sharp noses, so strong we can smell what is called the 'true scent' of something. It is easiest to detect in the blood and other fluids."

A smirk grew on his lips, he had a feeling he could guess what those _other fluids_ were. "And what do I smell of normally?"

"Leather, gunpowder, whomever you've lain with," she got a wince for that, "and the faintest trace of almonds." Belatedly, it occurred to him that if she could smell whom he'd laid, could she _hear_ him at it as well, with those long ears of hers? Ruefully, he realized she probably could.

"So I smell of almonds. And what of you, my sharp-nosed co-pilot, what do you smell of?" it took all his self-control to keep from raising his eyebrow suggestively.

"Moonflowers," came her clipped response, perhaps his self-control wasn't as good as he thought it was. Or, more believable, viera were simply able to read minds.

"A moonflower? Pray tell, what is that? I've never heard of them before," he propped himself up on an arm, then winced, letting himself fall back on his bed. "The idiot shot me, didn't he?"

"Aye. It heals well. Should it continue so, flight will be ours in a few days hence," Fran stood abruptly from her spot at the foot of the bed, wincing as her legs straightened. How long had she been sitting there?

Balthier blinked as she began to walk stiffly out, had she sat with him the entire time? Impossible, she cared not for him. A frown creased his face, deepening the lines already there, why had she rescued him at all? What did she have to gain from it, when she'd have gained her freedom by leaving him to die?

"Fran, wait."

She stopped, an ear flicking in his direction.

"Why didn't you leave me?" his voice sounded small, unsure even. For her, it was a welcome change from his arrogant and brash speech.

Silence settled between them as she weighed her words, a habit he'd become used to. She never said anything unless she thought long and hard about it.

"Consider us even."

That was it then, he thought, more than a little disappointed, she had saved him to clear her debt, and leave. Where would he find a co-pilot now? "Where will you go?" he fought and lost a desperate battle to keep the bitterness from his voice.

"To where do we fly?"

Breathing stopped, and it wasn't because of the 'corset.' Balthier glanced up at her. "You're staying?"

"I like your ship. For now, I'll find no better."

You'll never find any better than her, he thought vehemently, she's the best there is. And soon, even the taciturn Fran would have to realize it. Or he'd have to force her to realize—finding another co-pilot would be a bother. "How long will you be staying?"

"I know not," she shrugged, "I will stay until I am gone."

Fran could point out the obvious with a stunning alacrity. And, admittedly, a certain amount of charm.


End file.
